Chapter Text
Natsuo didn’t know much, but he knew that there was a golden child at home. Touya had told him so. And if Touya said it, it must be true. His older brother knew everything. At thirteen, he was practically an adult, at least to nine-year-old Natsuo, who still struggled with his kanji homework and whose arms and legs felt too long for his body. Touya didn’t have these problems. Touya was sure of himself. Confident. He didn’t stumble over words or fall over his own feet in the garden like Natsuo did. At least, not by accident. He did it on purpose sometimes to make Natsuo laugh.
Shouto, their youngest brother, was the favorite. Touya had said that too. Natsuo had believed him because it explained so many things. Why Natsuo barely knew their father, for example. Why their mother hardly ever smiled anymore and was always, always with Shouto. Shouto had taken her from them, taken her laughter, her warm hands that used to tousle his hair or pat his back. Now those hands were only for Shouto. He never saw her anymore, except for brief glimpses in passing or when she was comforting the youngest boy, holding him close, her voice a soft murmur.
Natsuo trusted Touya with everything. Touya had lived longer; he understood things that Natsuo didn’t. And Touya, he had a way of speaking that made everything make sense. Natsuo couldn’t argue with him even if he wanted to. He believed his brother’s words, even when he didn’t want to—because why would Touya lie? Why would he be wrong?
It was why, when they played in the garden with Fuyumi and a yellow rubber ball, Natsuo pretended not to see the tiny face peeking from the window on the second floor. He hated that face. The boy it belonged to was small, smaller than Natsuo remembered being at that age, and he was pale and quiet. He was always watching them with wide, mismatched eyes, like he was waiting for something. Sometimes, Natsuo would glance up and find those eyes staring down, and a jolt of annoyance would shoot through him. Why was he always there? Why was he always watching? What did he want?
"See him up there?" Touya had said once, following Natsuo's gaze up to the window. His tone was dismissive, his eyes narrowed with annoyance. "He's always crying for attention. Such a baby."
The words were like a spark in Natsuo’s mind. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but now it made sense. Every time they heard Shouto crying, and every time they heard their mother’s voice soothing him, the resentment grew stronger.
Natsuo stared up at the window again, seeing the small figure retreat, and felt the bitter edge of anger build in his chest. “Yeah. Why’s he always gotta do that?” he muttered, his brows knitting together.
Touya shrugged, kicking the yellow ball back to Fuyumi with a little more force than necessary. "Mom never comforts us like that anymore," he said, a sneer twisting his lips. "She’s always with him."
Fuyumi, who was chasing after the ball, paused for a moment, looking up at them both. Her face was pinched with thought, a hesitant frown crossing her features. "Maybe... maybe it’s because he’s still little?” she suggested tentatively. “I mean, he’s only five…”
Natsuo scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "So? I don’t see why that matters. It’s not fair."
Their mother never comforted him anymore. Not like she used to. Not like she comforted Shouto.
One day, as they played in the garden, Fuyumi caught the ball and glanced over her shoulder. Shouto was there again, but this time he wasn't at the window. He was standing by the garden door, his small fingers gripping the edge of the frame, half-hidden in the shadows of the house.
"Maybe we should invite him to play," Fuyumi suggested, tilting her head toward the door where their youngest brother stood. She looked uncertain but hopeful, her voice soft. "He’s always watching. Maybe he wants to join."
Natsuo followed her gaze, and for the first time, he really looked at Shouto. The little boy was staring back at them, wide-eyed and hesitant. His arms were thin and pale, and as the sunlight shifted, Natsuo noticed bruises—dark, ugly marks marring the otherwise white skin. His breath hitched slightly. He hadn’t seen that before.
But before he could think any further, Shouto realized they were looking at him. His eyes widened further, and he took a step back, disappearing into the shadows like a startled animal.
"See? He already thinks he’s better than us," Touya scoffed, breaking the silence. His voice was dripping with disdain as he watched Shouto flee. "I don’t want to play with him. He’d just ruin it."
Fuyumi frowned. "That’s not fair, Touya. Maybe he’s just scared."
But Natsuo didn’t hear her. His eyes lingered on the now-empty doorway, his mind stuck on the sight of those bruises. Why had Shouto run away like that? If he really thought he was better than them, wouldn’t he have come out and joined them? It didn’t make sense. Maybe Touya was right, and Shouto hated them, too. Maybe that was why he was always peeking from the shadows, never saying anything, just watching. His tiny, crying, attention-seeking face.
The thought of it made Natsuo’s stomach twist, anger bubbling up again. His hands clenched into fists, and he turned back to his brother and sister. "Yeah, I don’t wanna play with him either," he said firmly, though his voice wavered a little. "He’s weird."
That night, when Natsuo was lying in bed, his body heavy with exhaustion from running around all day, Touya crawled up beside him. It was a familiar routine; when everyone else was asleep, Touya would talk to him for hours. About their father. About Shouto. About their mother.
"Father sees us as failures, Natsuo," Touya whispered that night, his voice a low murmur in the dark. "We’re nothing to him. Nothing at all."
Natsuo felt a tightness in his chest, the same uncomfortable knot he always felt when Touya spoke like this. "But... but he likes Shouto," he argued softly. "Doesn’t he?"
Touya let out a bitter laugh. "Of course he does. The golden child. He’s the only one Father cares about. And Mom too. She only loves him now."
The words settled over Natsuo like a thick, suffocating blanket. He didn’t know how to feel about it. It hurt to think about, but Touya’s voice was so sure, so certain. How could he not believe him?
One night, however, everything changed.
Touya wasn’t in his usual spot when Natsuo was ready for bed. The room felt colder without his brother there. He waited, expecting Touya to show up at any moment, but minutes dragged on, and he didn’t come. Anxiety started to coil in his stomach, and he slipped out of bed, padding quietly through the dark hallways of their house in search of his older brother.
It was late, the house was mostly silent, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floors beneath his feet. As he wandered, his ears caught a faint, muffled sound—a sound he knew too well. Crying. Curious and a little worried, Natsuo followed the noise, his feet carrying him toward a part of the house he rarely ventured to.
The door in front of him read "Training Room." Natsuo had never been inside. His heart pounded in his chest, and he hesitated, but then he heard it again—a choked, desperate sob. Shouto’s voice. He was certain of it. He crept closer, pressing his ear against the sliding door. The door was slightly ajar, and with a gentle push, he peeked inside.
His eyes widened at what he saw.
Shouto, his little brother, was on the floor, his tiny frame trembling. His face was streaked with tears, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Standing over him was their father. Enji Todoroki’s face was set in a grim scowl, his towering figure casting a long, menacing shadow over the small boy.
“Get up!” Enji’s voice was a low, rumbling growl, filled with cold anger.
Shouto’s cries grew louder, more desperate, but his body seemed to refuse to cooperate. He tried to push himself up with shaking arms, but his strength failed him, and he crumpled back down, sobbing harder.
"Get up, Shouto!" Enji barked, louder this time. He reached down, grabbing Shouto by the arm and yanking him to his feet. Natsuo saw the way Shouto’s face twisted in pain, his cries turning into a broken, breathless wail.
Natsuo’s breath caught in his throat. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. This didn’t make sense. If Shouto was the favorite, why was he being hurt? Why was he crying like that?
Touya had said—Touya had told him—
“Stop crying,” Enji snapped, his voice a harsh, biting command. “You think this is hard? You think this is enough to make you cry? You’re pathetic.”
Shouto’s sobs only grew louder, his tiny body convulsing with each breath. Natsuo felt his hands tremble, his mouth going dry. He didn’t know what to do, what to think.
This was all wrong.
He watched, frozen, as their father shoved Shouto to the ground again, the boy collapsing in a heap. The impact seemed to knock the breath out of him, and he lay there, panting, unable to move.
Natsuo didn’t understand. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Shouto was the golden child, wasn’t he? He was the favorite. Why was Father hurting him? Why was he—
A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, and Natsuo jumped, nearly yelping in surprise. He turned to see Touya standing beside him, his face pale and his eyes narrowed with a strange, intense fury.
“Get away from there,” Touya hissed, pulling Natsuo back from the door. “You shouldn’t be watching this.”
“But—Touya—Father—”
“Just shut up and come on,” Touya snapped, his voice harsher than Natsuo had ever heard it. There was something wild in his eyes, something dark and almost desperate. “Come on, Natsuo!”
And Natsuo, too shocked and confused to argue, let himself be pulled away, his mind reeling with everything he had just seen. Shouto’s cries still echoed in his ears, a haunting, pitiful sound that clung to his thoughts like a ghost.
Maybe being the favorite wasn’t as good as he had thought.